


Almost

by tatooedlaura



Series: Life [39]
Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:19:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9399176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatooedlaura/pseuds/tatooedlaura
Summary: You really, really can't take him anywhere ...





	

Their dual hangovers were nursed at the pool, no tacos in sight but plenty of water and one rum and Coke apiece seemed to ease the burden. By that evening, they were out and about, taking a touristy ghost tour at Mulder’s insistence, “because if you’re looking for a good haunted place, Scully, you look to New Orleans.”

“Ghosts don’t exist, Mulder.”

“Remind me to go to bed tonight with a sign on my chest stating, ‘she said it, not me’ and an arrow pointing to you.”

He kept up with the guide fairly well, his height affording him better acoustics than Scully, who’s shortness kept her in the muffled area of everyone else’s shoulders. She was okay with this though, given the sheer rapturous look on Mulder’s face the entire time. He absorbed these stories like a sponge and Scully had more than one thought that they’d be on a case down here soon, if he had anything to say about it.

She was so enamored watching him she was surprised then their group broke up, the tour over, the evening coming to a close. Mulder gave her a smile, then leaned in to her sightline, “you so totally spooked you can’t move? Please say you are. I’ll buy you a Beignet if you say you are.”

Catching the corner of his mouth in a kiss, she first patted his cheek, thumb running over where she’d just kissed, then ever so lightly scratching her fingernails down his two days worth of stubble, “how ‘bout I buy the Beignets and we call it good.”

“I’m already calling it pretty good.”

Once they were at the little café across from the hotel, listening to the band do their jazz thing, Scully reached across the table, pulling gently on his pointer finger knuckle until he opened his hand and she slipped her fingers through his, palms pressed together lightly, “you know what?”

His eyes were locked on hers, “what?”

“I haven’t gotten to hold your hand since you broke your leg. It’s eight days.”

Tugging her forward, he raised her fist to his lips, kissing randomly, tasting both powdered sugar and delicious Scully, “nine, actually.”

The fact that he knew the count better than she did warmed her instantly, “I’ve missed it.”

Still nursing her knuckles, “me, too.” Etta James began in the background and Mulder grinned at her, “I’d ask you to dance but I imagine I’d fall over right now.”

“We’ll dance, Mulder. When you’re better, we’ll dance.” Her eyes shined at him, “and then we’ll hold hands and forget about the world.”

“Like we are right now?”

Moving her second hand to him, she caressed the soft hairs on the back of his hand, making the ones on his neck stand up, “exactly like we are right now.”

The things lined up on the end of his tongue to declare to her were rudely banished by a clumsy waiter accidently throwing a large mug of hot coffee on Mulder when he stumbled, tripping on a neighboring table’s chair. Forgetting about broken leg, cast and crutches, Mulder flew backwards in his attempt to stand, to brush the burning liquid from his chest, crotch and bare legs. Instead of smooth execution, he went for formless crashing flat on his back, his head cracking painfully against a low brick wall, effectively ending his consciousness immediately.

It also saved him from seeing the heart-wrenching look on Scully’s face as she dropped beside him.

&&&&&&&&&&&&

The first face, thankfully, that swam in front of him was hers and not some annoying, pimply-faced doctor, entirely too young to have any kind of degree and telling him to remember three stupid things for his concussion test.

“Mulder? You with us?”

It was only then that he realized he was on his side, “huh?”

“You waking up?” Her fingers were on his forehead, playing with the hair at his temple, “don’t try to roll over, okay?”

She was blurry and his head ached, “what?”

Her expression shifted from concerned Scully to concerned doctor, “Mulder? Can you hear me?”

Shutting his eyes would be better. if only he could figure out the words to tell her to move out of the way, to tell her he was about to throw up from the room spinning and the pounding in his head.

The next thing he knew, she was in front of him, wearing a scrub top, worrying the corner of her thumb, “hey, you’re gonna make it bleed if you keep chewing on it like that.”

His ears and Scully’s, however, heard some kind of garbled mess, the only word standing out was ‘chewing’ and she removed her thumb, “you scare me like that, I reserve the right to gnaw on my thumb.” He went to nod and pain exploded in his head. A whimper escaped his pale lips and Scully shushed him with the same thumb now on his cheek, “don’t move, okay? You’ve got an impressive amount of stitches in the back of your head from the brick wall you slammed in to as well as a pretty good concussion.”

“Matching scars.” She had to lean forward to hear him repeat, “matching scars. You and I.”

Letting out a wet chuckle that gave away her very recent tears, “yes, matching scars.”

His hand drifted up and he watched it, slightly confused as to how he was moving it, given he couldn’t really feel it, the clouded haze of his head making his limbs feel detached and weightless. Finally, he ran into her cheek, “you were crying.”

Given it was 2am and she was tired and her nerves were frazzled and this was Mulder, she nodded against his fingers, “yeah. You had me scared there for a little while.”

“I’m glad you’re here with me and not in jail. I should have been with you when you fell. I’m sorry I wasn’t with you.”

His words were clearer now but he was still slurring and that look of concern was back. Removing her face from his hand, “I’m going to go grab the doctor. I’ll be back.”

The third time he opened his eyes, she was there again, this time looking exhausted. Her smile, however, was wide, “welcome back.” Resting her elbows on the bed, she tilted her head to see him straight, “do you remember how to spell Elvis’ middle name?”

“Aron.”

“How many fish do you have?”

“Six.”

“Do you think Frohike is cute?”

“Only when he wears his bunny pajamas.”

Brushing her lips over the tip of his nose, “I can finally understand you.”

This time, he could control his hand when it reached for her, wrapping his fingers around her forearm, thumb running over the crease of her elbow, “you’ve been crying again.”

Blinking rapidly a few times, “over you? Never.”

“Yes, over me.”

“Believe what you want. Mostly I’m just really tired.”

He smiled at her as best he could, “I’d invite you up here with me but I’m afraid to move. Last time I did, someone let off a jackhammer in my skull.”

“I’m fine in my chair, I promise.” Giving him one last concentrated stare that made his heart skip a beat, which registered on the monitor for God and Scully to witness, “you have 22 stitches.”

“Damn wall cracked me open like an egg, didn’t it?”

Moving forehead to forehead, eyebrow to eyebrow, nose nestled to nose and lips so close there was no light between them, “I don’t like being scared like that. Don’t do it again, okay?”

He desperately wanted to close that last micron of space but his head pounded and his heart’s erratic rhythm was making him nauseous, “I’ll try.”

She could hear the monitor doing funny things and she pulled away, “you okay?”

“Puke,” was the only word he got out before she had a basin under his mouth and a cool hand on his clammy forehead as he dry-heaved.

When he finished, she moved the still-empty container, leaning over to kiss his cheek lightly, “you’ll feel better soon.”

“Drugs?”

“I’ll go see what you can take. Hang on while I’m gone, okay?”

Knowing not to nod, he just shut his eyes, waiting for either death or his Scully to return.

&&&&&&&&&&&

He spent the dismal remains of that night and the next in the hospital, his concussion severe enough to need constant monitoring and bless her, Scully sat next to him the whole time, going back to the hotel only to change and shower.

When he was finally released, he moved slow, thoroughly afraid of falling again, resorting to a wheel chair instead of his crutches. She packed their things and checked out of the hotel, then came to pick him up at the hospital entrance, helping his maneuver into the Jeep, “comfortable?”

Pillow behind his back to keep his head from resting on the seat, “sure. Why not.”

Taking that as a ‘yes’, they pulled into traffic, “home?”

“Do we have to?”


End file.
